Reviews are based on multiple visits. Ratings reflect the reviewer's overall reaction to food, ambience and service.

As I'm sitting on the patio at a new gastropub called the Blind Pig – watching the sun disappear behind Rancho Santa Margarita Lake, sharing a few small plates with good friends, catching intermittent glimpses of the Dodgers on one of the many flat-screen TVs overhead – I'm reminded of something Wolfgang Puck said many years ago. He said he can almost always guess the age of a chef by counting the number of ingredients on his plate. The celebrity chef and I were discussing his evolution in the kitchen, and he was musing about some of his earlier creations and how he, like so many young chefs eager to make their mark, hid behind the false confidence of complexity before finally gaining the maturity and wisdom to step back and remove an ingredient or two. Less can be more, and it usually is. But it's a lesson that takes time – sometimes many years – to sink in.

I'm thinking about this as I'm pushing my fork through a dish of olive-flavored quinoa that's been splashed with a bouillabaisse-inspired vinaigrette in a bowl lined with sweet pepper purée, on top of which rest two entwined deep-fried prawns that have been artfully showered with what might be pulverized peanuts and wisps of Manchego cheese. Putting all those flavors into my mouth at once is an assault on the taste buds. The coveted prawns end up fading into the background.

The cocktails here are superb. I keep thinking this as I find myself reaching more frequently for my glass than for my fork. The consulting mixologist is Gabrielle Dion, of Broadway.

Puck's observation nags at me again as I'm tasting the bone marrow – rather, not tasting it. The marrow disappears beneath a gale of smoky shallot marmalade, large pickled figs and pungent blue cheese – all interesting flavors on their own, but when they join forces like this they overwhelm the marrow's inherent deliciousness.

It's déjà vu as I'm tasting the tuna tartare, with its avocado panna cotta, puffed rice, ginger pickled carrots and sunflower soy purée. It's a stunning presentation. This is easily some of the most creative, out-of-the-box, rebellious cuisine ever to hit south Orange County. And some of it really is delicious, if slightly cerebral.

The ambitious young chef is Josh Han, who worked alongside Amar Santana at Broadway and Charlie Palmer at Bloomingdale's before that. He does have some great ideas, and my favorite dish is his celery “mac and cheese.” Pay attention to the quotation marks around “mac and cheese.” That's your first clue that this isn't really that.

The menu mentions pickled celery, but there's nothing particularly celery-like or pickle-like about the way the pasta tastes, which has a cream sauce that's more herbal than cheesy. On multiple occasions, I watch this dish get pushed aside and ignored after everyone takes their first small bite and reacts with sullen faces. They were hoping for something more akin to mac 'n' cheese, I guess, something more befitting a casual gastropub, something hot and bubbly and gooey. I reach over and claim the unwanted pasta, delighted to have it all to myself, wishing the restaurant served bread so I could scrape every last bit of sauce from the bowl.

The food here is served small-plate style, meant to be shared, and perhaps debated. There's no telling which dishes will come out first, and no way to specify any order of preference. “It comes out when it comes out,” says our waitress. Service is exactly what you might expect from a fast-paced pub with high-top tables.

Servers encourage us to order two savory dishes per person. And when the food starts coming, it really starts coming. Plates and bowls pile up so fast it's impossible to make room on the table. We're juggling plates, holding them in the air or passing them around with one hand while trying to eat with the other because there's simply nowhere for the dishes to land. This isn't exactly tapas.

The beet salad is gorgeous. Golden beets are artfully decorated with crumbled cheddar cheese, along with a cumin-guava vinaigrette and little clusters of pistachio granola. Those ingredients alone make a seductive composition. The additional hibiscus-infused Maui onions and tangle of watercress aren't really necessary but don't get in the way, either – a modern version of the parsley sprig.

The lo mein is another of my favorite dishes. It appears to be one of the starkest as well – a bowl of Chinese noodles tossed with sweet-tart sun-dried tomatoes that appear to have been dusted in flour and lightly seared. It is wildly addictive and the perfect complement to a great craft beer.

The pork belly is wonderful, glazed with a sauce of black garlic and served atop French toast. And a pan-roasted chicken breast is nicely done, with a little salad of kale and grapefruit. I really like the flavors in a dish of chorizo ravioli. I just wish the ravioli dough wasn't so thick and chewy.

My least favorite dish is the chicken liver mousse, which is something I normally enjoy. There's an aggressiveness to the mousse that I find overbearing. I'm not sure how or why the chef achieves this level of acridity, but I don't care for it. I do, however, love the buttermilk biscuit and fennel-blackberry compote that it's served with. I wish I could order the biscuit and jam alone, but “The chef doesn't allow any modifications.”

When it comes time for dessert, the flavors become even more experimental. There are only two choices. One is an ice cream float made with great house-made vanilla ice cream, nutmeg syrup and Pellegrino sparkling water. The water makes it taste bitter and, well, watered down. The other is a cheesecake made from brie. This results in a much gooier, less sweet cheesecake than normal, which is actually quite good. It's served in a diminutive portion along with a spoonful of bright green ice cream. The ice cream has a sharp, bitter flavor that reminds me of freshly cut grass. “What kind of ice cream is this?” I ask. “Parsley,” the waitress says.

Parsley's been around forever. So has ice cream. There's a reason parsley ice cream hasn't already become popular. It's not a great flavor. Oh, and they don't serve coffee. “We don't have room for a coffee machine,” the server says.

There are chefs who cook from the heart and chefs who cook from the head. And while one approach is no more honorable than the other, the former often produces the greatest artists and risk-takers. Nobody can say the menu at the Blind Pig isn't original, or complex enough, or thought-provoking enough. Is that enough to sustain a neighborhood gastropub and sports bar? I don't know. But without a doubt, I look forward to watching this chef mature.

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